As I was going away, he invited me to dine with him on the ensuing Sunday.
"That's a strange man!" said I to myself, after I had left the house, "he is evidently very clever; but I cannot say that I like him much, with his Oxford Reviews and Dairyman's Daughters.

But what can I do?
I am almost without a friend in the world.

I wish I could find some one who would publish my ballads, or my songs of Ab Gwilym.

In spite of what the big man says, I am convinced that, once published, they would bring me much fame and profit.

But how is this ?--what a beautiful sun!--the porter was right in saying that the day would clear up--I will now go to my dingy lodging, lock up my manuscripts, and then take a stroll about the big city.".